the memory of trees
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: If time waits for no half-elf, be they an ancient hero with a new purpose or a scholar with new passions, then it will not stay to treat their wounds: acceptance is the only cure. A tale of healing in thirteen parts. XII – "The same fears that once divided them now serve to drive them closer than ever. Raine must fight back against time, and Yuan has something to prove, too."
1. evening falls

_forever searching, never right_  
 _I am lost in oceans of night_  
 _forever hoping I can find  
_ _memories,_ _those memories I left behind_

* * *

The day Derris-Kharlan drifts out of range is the day Yuan realizes, too late, that the world has left him behind.

Perhaps that's why he chooses to stay here, where time is less relevant, on the pretense of guarding me. Yet the years still fly by, marked only by visits from some of the Heroes of Regeneration. Yuan is civil to them, and his well-wishes are earnest ones, but he still prefers not to talk to them for long.

They don't have much to say, anyway. They usually inquire about my condition, or else update him on the goings-on around the worlds they united. Occasionally, they may try to talk of their personal lives, although his half-genuine disinterest usually dissuades them.

Nonetheless, Yuan offers them his four-room home, giving them a place to spend the night after they commune with me. Often, he does not return to the house until long after his guests leave it the next day. He prefers to observe only from a distance as the Heroes speak to me in twilit reverie.

I am yet too weak to manifest physically for longer than a few fleeting moments, but though I sleep in the ethereal realm of all spiritkind, I dream of all the Giant Tree perceives and more. The Heroes are close enough in spirit for me to sense their thoughts and feel their actions.

And I can see that one of them, Raine, comes to visit Yuan as well as me.

Her visits are no more frequent than any of the others', but every time she comes, she asks Yuan to tell her of the Kharlan War. Every time, he refuses. And every time, when he vanishes into the dusk and leaves his house to the Heroes, Raine follows him. Because she's curious, because she has more questions than history books can answer, because Yuan's hospitality is admittedly uncharacteristic in its selflessness—a stark contrast to his apathetic demeanor and his habit of vanishing.

Raine's pursuit becomes a slow and dignified game of hide-and-seek, lasting late into the night over the course of several years' worth of visits. Having led the Regenades for centuries, Yuan is excellent at concealing himself… but one night, she finally finds him. He's little more than a shadow flitting through the darkness, moving like a breeze through the leaves, but he's close enough for an observant half-elf like Raine to feel the pull of mana in his blood.

Yuan realizes he's caught when their eyes lock in the starlight. Though there is time for him to run, he accepts his defeat with a resigned sigh, intrigued despite himself. Raine already asks him enough impossible questions during the daylight hours. What more can she want with him now?

"Why do you always follow me?" asks Yuan crossly, folding his arms as she approaches carefully, cautiously. "You should be asleep, like your friends, or you'll be too exhausted to leave on time." His voice sounds a little more impatient than he feels, but he has learned by now that exaggerating his disapproval achieves results more quickly. Snapping is second nature to him.

But Raine only heaves a sigh, immune to his subtle intimidation. She has come to expect this attitude from him. "Why do you offer us your house if you don't want us to stay there?" she counters, searching his face. "Why force yourself out of your own home on our account? There's room enough for more than just the four of us." She asks primarily out of curiosity, but she knows as soon as the words leave her lips that Yuan will take them as a challenge.

"I like being alone," he retorts, glowering at Raine with all the righteous ferocity of the angel he used to be. "And I'm hardly evicting myself from my own house, least of all for any of _you_. It's just that Martel told me…" Yuan stops himself abruptly before he can repeat what his fiancée once said to him. That if she ever had a real house of her own, she'd never turn down a traveler in need, because she'd never forget what it was like to wander the world. (Neither will Yuan.)

Still, he inadvertently tells Raine more with that fragment than he has in years full of evasive explanations. "I see," says Raine, smiling faintly. It seems that love can make a heart beat to a different rhythm after all. This must be what he's afraid of, all those times he shuts her down. Yuan can't bring himself to speak of all he's lost, even though he still thinks about what _she_ would want him to do or say or think after thousands of years.

Raine knows better than most the hold of the past on the present: subtle semi-conscious quirks, little daily tributes to moments and places and people gone by. "Then I'll let you be alone," she says eventually, and though she places no special emphasis on the last word, Yuan hears it anyway. "Good night, Yuan."

Her voice softens to a sympathetic murmur, and Yuan frowns as Raine turns and disappears into the darkness. She likes being alone too, after all, and she is young enough that she can still discern the difference between solitude and isolation. But Raine does not return to explain the distinction. She sees right through the lies Yuan tells himself, and she doesn't even need to say so for him to start second-guessing them.

Though her visits continue as usual over the years, she does not seek him out again. Yet from time to time, as if surfacing from a dream, Yuan recalls what it felt like to understand and to be understood in the space between words, in a brief meeting of like minds in the unlikeliest time and place. And, if only for a moment, he almost wishes she would.


	2. on your shore

_cool waves wash over and drift away with dreams of youth_  
 _so time is stolen; I cannot hold you long enough_

* * *

"What will you name it?" asks Yuan finally, staring at Raine's swollen belly.

Seven years ago, he requested that the Heroes of Regeneration refrain from bringing their children to visit, because that was the year he realized that one of his former companions is a grandfather, and that his grandson bears his name. He insists even to himself that it's for my safety's sake, to keep me hidden from the outside world until I grow stronger. But if that were so, he would not be just as shaken by the presence of an unborn child.

Yuan does not ask out of curiosity, since discussing children leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Rather, he asks because he would prefer to get all talk of family out of the way as soon as possible. He was jolted out of his dreams of descendants the evening his fiancée was killed, and by and by, he forced himself to forget them entirely. Reminders that others have realized the visions he has long since abandoned are unwelcome, and—more often than not—painful.

Raine can see that Yuan doesn't care, but it's so unusual for _him_ to ask _her_ any questions that she answers anyway. "If it's a girl, she'll be Alicia Grace," she says, scrutinizing his countenance. "But her cousin might also be named Alicia, so I'm almost hoping for a son, if only to avoid the confusion." Raine gives a somewhat strained laugh. "I had enough practice raising Genis, anyway."

…Alone. Yuan hears the hesitation in her voice, the unspoken addendum, and remembers a different half-elven girl also forced into the role of single mother, siblings like a parent and child. Had _she_ ever fallen pregnant, he could never have left her to wander the world like that again. "And… you came here by yourself?" he asks disbelievingly, after a brief but awkward pause.

"Inasmuch as I can be by myself in my current condition, yes," says Raine, dryly humorous, but she already thinks she knows why he asks. Everyone else is concerned for her as well, since she's into her tenth month, but according to some Tethe'allan studies, gestation takes somewhat longer when elven blood is involved. Still, she doesn't know any other half-elves carrying a human's child, so she has only her research to assure her that nothing is wrong.

"There's no need for me to confine myself to the house just yet," Raine continues finally, her voice edged with a somewhat exasperated sigh. "I don't intend to stay here long, at any rate, so I should be fine—and I value our conversations, even if you don't." She gives Yuan the ghost of a smile as he narrows his eyes, but cannot keep a note of doubt out of her voice. "I can still take care of myself for now."

More than a small part of Raine wonders if that's true, and it shows. Though she has matured at a human rate, her aging has already slowed, but by elven standards, she's hardly more than an infant herself. Peeking out from behind the ever-present veil in her eyes is the little girl who raised her brother from infancy, distrustful and afraid of change. Is she moving too quickly by continuing to live at a human pace?

Yuan crosses his arms, unconvinced. "You'll be able to have children for several more centuries," he says matter-of-factly, and she almost flinches as he hits the mark on his first try. Eight hundred years of double agency have lent him an uncanny ability to read people at a glance, putting her natural intuition to shame. "You might have considered waiting awhile."

Raine rests a protective hand on her belly, as she has come to do when angry. Yuan's dismissive disapproval convinces her, more than anything else ever could, that she is doing the right thing after all. "I didn't conceive a child merely for the sake of reproduction, Yuan," she says sharply. "Hardly anyone does, these days. Surely you haven't forgotten what it's like to love someone?"

Yuan inclines his head, more in grief than thought. "I can't," he says, but the negative feels slippery as a lie on his tongue. It used to be true, at least, but lately, he's grown weary enough of existence that he barely remembers how to feel _anything_ anymore. "But I have never loved a human." It's different, he thinks, struggling to find himself superior. It must be.

"Would you have loved Martel if she had been human?"

Raine doesn't mean to speak aloud, but there's no taking back the words now; she raises her fingers to her lips, too late. Yuan jerks his head aside as though she slapped him, his brow twitching into a scowl, and tries not to snap at her. It doesn't work. "If Martel had been human, Mithos might have been human as well," he says shortly, "and the last four thousand years would have been very different."

Even as he speaks, Raine shakes her head, aggravated by her own unforgivable intrusiveness: her love has granted her a newfound empathy for his loss. "I'm sorry," she says, sincerely. "Please… forget I asked."

Either she cannot meet his gaze or he cannot meet hers, so Yuan spares them both by turning his back on her. He does not owe her an answer. Raine shifts in place uncomfortably, understanding that she has crossed the line much more quickly than usual. They have clearly reached the end of their rendezvous. All that remains is for her to get back in her Rheaird and go.

Yuan intends to stand there until she leaves, but Raine's question burns in his mind like unspilt tears, and he lets out a long sigh. There will be no peace until he answers. "Yes, I think I still would have loved her," he says eventually, quietly, his voice barely above a breath carried over on the breeze. "But… I don't think I ever could have told her so."

Such is Raine's surprise that Yuan responded at all that she finds herself at a loss for words. "I see," she says slowly, hesitantly.

"No, you don't," says Yuan, chuckling humorlessly, and turns to face her once more. She bows her head; he's right, of course. It almost makes sense, but not quite. Not yet. "Safe journey, Raine," he adds, striding forward to help her forcibly into her Rheaird—his chivalry rusty after millennia of disuse. "Someday soon, you'll understand."


	3. once you had gold

_now you can see, spring becomes autumn_  
 _leaves become gold, falling from new_  
 _ever and always, always and ever_  
 _no one can promise a dream come true_  
 _time gave both darkness and dreams to you_

* * *

Raine's visits may be fewer and farther between these years, but her questions come to torment Yuan constantly.

He finds himself thinking about her words more and more often, reliving the war he's tried so hard to forget. So he tells her shortly, as he should have told her long ago, that the knowledge of the past must die with him as it should. Let him fade into anonymity, that he can find the peace _she_ was never granted, and that her brother refused to seek!

That visit is the last Yuan sees of Raine for years, but his restless thoughts of the past do not stop in the drought of her absence. Doubt pushes aside the regret and anguish that fill the void of his heart, and he wonders for what seems like the first time whether he was wrong.

Yuan's resolve steels again when Raine returns six summers later without so much as a warning, her eyes threatening a storm. To his relief, she comes neither to apologize nor to forgive him for their latest and most devastating feud, but because she's finally started to recognize that the rest of the world turns too swiftly for half-elves, and this is the only sanctuary she can find.

"My daughter is a married woman," says Raine stiffly, after the customary silence that follows the usual meaningless pleasantries. In a way, she finds solace in the ritual, unaltered whether she's been gone weeks or years, and unaffected by the nature of their latest parting. "As of yesterday."

"Congratulations," says Yuan tonelessly. There is no need for falsified sincerity when both of them understand that Raine did not come here to share good news—and even if she did, that all his well-wishes would be in vain.

"It… makes me remember something the Pope said, long ago," says Raine, and there's an unusual undercurrent of agitation or perhaps desperation in her ordinarily calm tone. "How half-elves are incapable of understanding the terror of growing older, while our children do not age."

As Raine swallows the implication still stuck in her throat, unable to speak the rest of her sentiment aloud, Yuan gives her an ironic smile. He will take pity on her, of a sort, and say it for her. "And you've realized the terror of not aging as your daughter grows older," he says coolly, and Raine flinches. "Is that it?"

"Yuan, what have I—what have I done?" asks Raine, her quavering voice surprising them both by breaking in the middle. "I've brought a child into the world who will die hundreds of years before I do, and who will live hundreds of years longer than her husband." Raine does not seek comfort or sympathy, knowing all too well that Yuan will offer neither. She seeks only the knowledge that she is not alone, stuck between disparate streams of time.

Shaking his head, Yuan gives a long exhalation. "I've heard it said that our lineage is a curse. Those of us with elven blood were born of human desire for power, beauty, longevity… all the things they can't hold onto long enough. Our birth is a punishment, or so I've been told." More times than he cares to count—by the human who was not his father, by his elf-loving traitor of a mother, by strangers from all places and all eras.

"Then why do _we_ suffer for it?" asks Raine, bowing her head, and in her tone is such a tempest of emotion that Yuan doesn't know how to respond. He senses a deep and directionless fury, almost vindictive in its conviction, and a futile and abiding regret unassuaged by the hollow reassurances of her well-meaning friends. Even those of her innocent brother.

Should Yuan add his frustration to Raine's fury, his melancholy to her fears? Or should he try to soothe her with corrosive words on an acidic tongue? "All living things suffer for their parents' mistakes," he says delicately, recalling something _she_ told her brother long ago, but cannot help but add his own spiteful twist: "We just suffer a little longer, that's all."

Raine looks up at him, and the usual veil crashes over her eyes like the sea, but it does not douse the fire burning in their depths. "Yes," she breathes. "And… why is that? What did we do to deserve this?"

Yuan shrugs. "We asked the same question, you know," he says carefully, naming no names. He doesn't want to encourage Raine for more reasons than he can count. "Even after thousands of years, the only answer any of us found was the Age of Lifeless Beings. Thanks to you and your friends, that's no longer possible, so you'll have to find an alternative yourself."

"So will you," shoots back Raine, crossing her arms. "You're a part of this world, too, like it or not."

Though Raine thinks she is stating the obvious, Yuan's eyes widen. He hasn't thought of himself like that for thousands of years, accustomed to operating on the edges of reality as a fallen angel from a decaying religion.

"I'm not," mutters Yuan, though Raine notices that he cannot quite meet her eyes, and wonders why he insists on living in denial. "I _shouldn't_ have been a part of this world for thousands of years, so I'm doing my best to stay out of it now. My only wish is to look after the one thing I know is worth protecting." He turns his face up to study my tree, grown strong over the years with him to watch it. "That isn't half-elven rights anymore."

Raine gives a strangled sigh. "That isn't what I'm _asking_ ," she says, weary in her helpless frustration, but falls silent as she realizes that she doesn't know what she _is_ asking. For some wisdom lost through the ages, ingredients for a spell to repair a heart broken from the beginning. For an answer to an answerless question.

Yuan once sought the same, but the only verdict he ever reached was that all worlds are built on shattered souls, and that the one she helped build is no exception. But something, glistening desperately in her eyes, prevents him from saying it. Somewhere deep inside herself, she already understands. "I'm… sorry for your loss," he murmurs instead, and Raine realizes that she is crying.


	4. exile

_winter has come too late, too close beside me_  
 _how can I chase away all these fears deep inside_

* * *

By the time Raine returns again, several winters later, she has lost something precious.

There is an almost tangible emptiness deep inside her, an all-pervasive ache pulsing in place of her heart. Yuan recognizes the void instantly, because he's felt it for thousands of years. Less so now than before, now that _she_ has finally been laid to rest, but enough to understand why Raine says nothing.

"He's gone," remarks Yuan, without needing to ask, and she nods hesitantly. Yes, he's gone, and she hasn't felt so displaced since she first landed in Sylvarant. Raine has always prided herself on her pragmatism, but the death of the only man she has ever loved has shaken her faith like nothing else ever could. There is nowhere for her to go. Perhaps that's why she finds herself here.

Still, Yuan is reluctant to offer any kind of condolences, because he has foreseen this end since before the beginning—so he waits until Raine takes a deep breath, looks him flatly in the eye, and asks, "How did you keep yourself from going mad?"

Yuan smiles humorlessly. Raine is asking the wrong questions, as usual. "I didn't," he says, and she frowns. "You'd do better to ask how I've managed to act sane." He glowers at nothing in a hollow imitation of severity. With so little to vex him over the years between her visits, he's losing his touch.

"Tell me," murmurs Raine. She has spoken those words often before, in varying tones—a preface to a rhetorical question, a demure demand, encouragement to continue a tale Yuan would much rather abandon halfway—but her request has never sounded so sincere. Or so sad.

He knows she won't like what he has to say, but he can hardly refuse her at a time like this. "By repeating to myself that _all_ love is fleeting," says Yuan. "Love between humans, love between half-elves, love between the two. That's how I lived. I convinced myself that it would still have ended someday even if she had lived a little longer."

"You had been going to _marry_ her, Yuan!" retorts Raine, almost before he finishes the sentence, and rushes on, swift and merciless in the blindness of her passion. "She had to have meant something to you when she was alive. How soon after you lost her did you change your mind?"

Yuan clenches his teeth with a grimace, and it takes a moment for him to convince his muscles to relax enough for him to form a response. "I didn't _lose_ her," he snaps, and Raine flinches at the scorn in his tone. He despises that phrase. The love of his life wasn't lost like some sort of key, which he could abandon or replace or stumble upon later. "She was murdered, and I couldn't stop it. Clinging to her only hurt more, so I let go."

"And has she left no lasting impression?" asks Raine skeptically, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows. "Love cannot truly be transient unless it leaves no trace. You are marked by your past, Yuan, as I am marked by mine." As her husband was marked by his, she adds silently to herself, but is afraid her voice will break if she tries to say it aloud.

Yuan glares at her, the long-forgotten fire of anger flaring to life in his chest. Raine has _no_ right to lecture him on love. "Show me," he says spitefully, his eyes sparking in indignation, and Raine takes a measured step back, confusion and alarm clashing in her eyes. "The _marks_ he left on you." Yuan rolls up his sleeves in anger, and Raine reaches instinctively for the staff on her back before she realizes he's trying to show her something on his forearms.

At first she sees only pale skin, but then she notices the paler lines stretching across it, white as the snow beneath their feet. Yuan's skin has been unbroken for centuries, which is more than he can say for whatever is left of his heart, but the scars linger. Raine stares at them, and then at him, as he smooths his sleeves self-consciously down again. He could have used the power of the Cruxis Crystal to erase or conceal them, but instead, he chose to keep them as a reminder.

Raine opens her mouth to apologize, stricken, but Yuan speaks first. "When you have the choice of closing your heart off or ripping it out," he growls, his voice low and threatening like thunder, "you numb the pain, or you die. I almost bled out the last time, before Kratos found me." He hesitates for a long moment, and his next words are more cautious, as if in a halfhearted attempt at compassion. "The sooner you accept that everyone you love will leave you behind in the end, the easier it will be."

Any sympathy Raine may have had evaporates at those words, and her eyes turn cold and hard as darkened ice. She's never hated Yuan so much as in this moment, not even when he opposed them: how dare he imply that mourning is superfluous! She knows he's only lashing out like a frightened animal, his spirit irreparably injured after suffering through so many lifetimes, but that doesn't make it any easier for her to forgive him.

Even Yuan understands that his past actions are unconscionable, but it still takes him a few moments of careful scrutiny to recognize the heaviness in his heart as guilt, or perhaps regret. He should never have dismissed Raine's emotions in this delicate stage, especially not while overcome with his own, but ever since he forbade her from asking him questions, he interacts with people so infrequently that he has grown selfish and erratic in his prolonged solitude.

"I suppose my heart isn't as fragile as yours," says Raine eventually, her voice soft and deadly serious. "I already _know_ I'll have to say many more farewells than to my husband—so I'll practice with this one." She takes a deep breath, bowing her head briefly, and her voice turns frigid as the air around them. "Goodbye, Yuan."

A pang shoots across his heart. However distant and unpredictable Raine's companionship may be, the prospects of losing it altogether are inexplicably distressing. He reaches out, opening his mouth to beg forgiveness for the first time in centuries—but her eyes flash steel into his soul once more as she turns away, and she's gone.


	5. on my way home

_I move in silence with each step taken_  
 _snow falling around me like angels in flight_  
 _far in the distance is my wish under moonlight_

* * *

Yuan's is the only one of Raine's goodbyes that does not last forever.

Still, she doesn't come when the axe-girl succumbs to the same degenerative illness that claimed her father. She doesn't come when the fallen angel takes his own life, or when the Chief of Mizuho's broken heart stops in her sleep. She doesn't even come when the boy who named me, long since a man, bleeds out for the sake of stopping an already bloody rebellion. Even after the Chosen of Regeneration finally ascends to the heavens eighty years later than her destiny demanded, Raine does not return.

Meanwhile, Yuan's conscience troubles him more and more as he reflects on his irrevocable and unjust words—the reason for her absence. His sleep becomes fitful, his thoughts restless, and he inexplicably finds himself as anxious for Raine as a guardian for his charge. Perhaps he should not have placed the weight of the world on her shoulders, not even a century old. Far more frail than his own back, made strong over thousands of years.

Yet, unbeknownst to Yuan, Raine does not bear her grudge for long. She stays out of his life more because she cannot figure out how to enter it again than because she wants no part of it. As she sees more of the truth behind his cynicism, her frustration is gradually replaced by a profound sorrow and weariness. She comes to understand and even appreciate the warning Yuan meant to deliver, well meant even if spitefully offered.

But as many farewells as she has endured, just as Yuan predicted, nothing can compare to the pain of realizing that no one _needs_ her anymore.

Homesick for a place that no longer exists, or perhaps never existed at all, Raine stands atop a ruined tower, gazes at the stormy sky, and longs for wings. She has as little interest in death as in life, but nonetheless the thought seeps into her mind like poison. She could fall, and no one would care. One of her friends thought the same way, even if he walked a knife's edge instead of a rampart like this.

Raine holds her breath and waits for his voice to remind her not to make his same mistakes, but she hears only the howling gales. All at once, the reality of her loneliness falls over her like a shadow, and she gives a dry sob, closing her burning eyes. No one is there to catch her; it is by her own strength that she lives on, and so it will always be.

How often has the same realization crossed Yuan's mind?

Though this is by no means the first time Raine has thought of him since their last parting, it is the first time she has truly seen herself in him. Not as a fellow half-elf alone, but as the bearer of her own soul, only made cold and callous by lifetimes of constant impermanence. Perhaps it is for that reason that Yuan is the last person in this world who might still need her.

After all, Raine brought him news of the outside world, whispers he might not otherwise have heard, his tie to a reality intertwined with but separate from his own. Alone in the garden of the Giant Tree, living out the rest of his life in seclusion, Yuan feels a sense of borderless tranquility… and the uneasy innocence that comes with ignorance. He misses the unpredictability of Raine's visits, the possibility of variation in an ultimately routine life, but he knows better than to believe she'll ever come back. Or so he thinks.

The day Raine finally returns is one of his hunting days, but she has all the time in the world to wait for him. There is no need for locks, and never has been, so she lets herself into the house. Rather than investigate his library, she curls up on his rug as comfortably as though she belongs there. Breaking and entering is enough of a crime for one day, she tells herself, and loses herself in joyless daydreams instead.

Yuan knows something is amiss the moment he gets home, and nocks another arrow in preparation for a different kind of hunt, but stops dead as soon as he gets through the door, his fingers trembling. First, he doesn't recognize what exactly he's seeing, and then he refuses to believe it, though a rush of relief follows the burst of shock. There lies Raine, unannounced and unassuming. And awake.

She pushes herself upright as soon as she senses him staring, his lips parted incredulously. "Hello, Yuan," she greets him in a murmur, the room strangely airless. For the moment, nothing else matters except that neither of them are quite so alone anymore. The bad blood between them has long since dried, and the evanescence of resentment has never seemed so clear before. "It's been a long time."

"I… I'm sorry," says Yuan, almost before she finishes—the phrase he's kept unspoken in his head for decades. His voice comes out low and hoarse from disuse, and he clears his throat self-consciously, setting down his bow and quiver. He had not intended to say it so soon, nor so disjointedly, but the suddenness of her appearance has unsettled him more than anticipated.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you have anything to be sorry for," says Raine, smiling distantly, and he blinks at her in astonishment. "That said, I came here to apologize as well. And to ask a question." She pauses, searching Yuan's expression for forgiveness or permission, and he grants both with a halting inclination of his head. What else can he do?

"I'm… still a historian," says Raine, rising, and cannot quite meet Yuan's eyes. "My interest in the past has not changed. I'd like to know if I'm still forbidden from asking questions." She speaks slowly, almost clumsily. She doesn't say it aloud, but they both know she is in desperate need of a purpose. This is more a request for help in finding something to do with herself than any desire to become his biographer.

Not too many years ago, Yuan might have said _no_ without a second thought, but this time, he hesitates. Raine's questions may not be so painful anymore, now that she too has lived through the losses every half-elf must overcome. Yet there's still a part of him, stubborn and selfish and irrational, that insists that his past should remain buried like a thorn in his heart, that pulling it out would hurt more, that she has no right to see it.

"You don't have to answer right now," says Raine, her voice disarmingly gentle, and approaches a few tentative steps. She's grown more observant in her time away, thinks Yuan, or perhaps he's just gotten easier to read. "I have the rest of my life ahead of me. Just take care that you don't take the rest of yours to make a decision."

They share a small smile, bittersweet and instinctive, before Raine dips her head and turns to leave. She doesn't want to overstay her welcome after arriving so unexpectedly, after all, especially since the time and distance between them already changed both their temperaments so tangibly.

Yuan has little choice but to follow her silently outside, where the sun shines blindingly bright on the snow, and wonder what it is she sees in him—why she's returned, after all these years, only to leave him alone again. Is this his punishment?

As she climbs elegantly into her Rheaird, Yuan finds his voice at last. "Raine," he says suddenly, stronger now, but falters. He wants to ask her not to stay away too long this time, and the words are on the tip of his tongue, but they flit to the farthest corners of his mind as she tosses him a cautious and questioning glance. He never learned how to shelve his pride, so he sighs and settles for his traditional goodbye instead: "Safe journey."

"Thank you," returns Raine softly, and Yuan echoes her words too quietly for anyone to hear as he watches her soar away.


	6. fallen embers

_once, as the night was leaving_  
 _into us our dreams were weaving_  
 _once, all dreams were worth keeping_  
 _I was with you_

* * *

Despite Raine's swift departure, her presence still seems to linger, prickling in Yuan's chest and fraying his nerves. He doesn't recognize the sparks dancing in his blood as impatience for several almost sleepless nights—the hope of her return, unexpectedly reawakened after having lain dormant for decades.

Realizing his emotions is usually the first step to laying them to rest, but this time, the epiphany only agitates Yuan further. He tells himself that he has no reason to feel so restless. Lies. He tells himself that Raine does not care for him any more now than she ever has. Lies. As he falls asleep, he tells himself that he has me, and that I am enough. _Lies_.

Yuan does not tell himself anything when he wakes up hours later soaked in sweat and tears and more, only lies there breathless and thoughtless and burning in shame. Trembling, he stumbles out of the house, falls bare-backed to his hands and knees before my tree, and prays. Not for his soul, but for his headstrong body. It's been centuries since Yuan could remember his dreams in any detail, but he wishes more than anything that he could forget this one.

It wasn't _her_ holding him down this time. It… wasn't… _her_.

"Martel," he moans finally, sitting back on his haunches to gaze at the starless sky. "Forgive me." There is nothing to forgive, but Yuan's instinct is still to seek my assurance. He has not yet learned to differentiate me from the woman he once loved. Her memories may be more prominent in my mind, but her experiences are not wholly mine. My form may resemble hers, but it has never touched his.

Still, for the sake of my lonely guardian, I find the strength to manifest.

He drinks in my all too familiar form with eyes desperate for absolution. Time is short, and there is no time for me to speak any less clearly than I feel. "I am no more your Martel than any mortal woman," I murmur, sadly and truly, and he freezes, uncomprehending. "Deep down, you know that. Please, Yuan. Free yourself."

Bowing his head, Yuan grits his teeth, and I choose to vanish rather than force him to face me any longer. As keenly as he felt the need to see me seconds ago, I can sense that he wishes me gone, even before he realizes it himself.

"I know," whispers Yuan, the words said aloud more to convince himself than me, and pushes his weary body back to its feet. His empty bed awaits.

Yuan may change his clothes to distance himself from the proof of his shifted desires, but his own name on nameless lips still echoes unbidden in his mind. The exact identity of that imaginary lover is irrelevant. To him, there are only two women: his goddess, and all others. Yet a sudden torrent of objections bursts into his heart at the thought, overcoming the philosophy so long left untouched.

 _What about Raine_?

She has obtained an identity all her own in his consciousness, and Yuan lets out a frustrated sigh. He finds himself wondering whether it was her in his dream, but does not want to know, and quickly brushes the idea aside lest it color the nights to come. Instead, he tries to recall what they have in common; how can Raine possibly have become so integral to his solitary existence? And why is she still present in his life; what does she see in him?

Yuan lies awake until sunrise, puzzling over answerless questions rather than risk another not-quite-nightmare. And somewhere, far away under grayer skies, so does Raine.

She has never been religious enough to pray, but snatches of her regrets make their way to me from the far reaches of the earth all the same. Her nights are no less long than his, although at least her husband's spirit is peaceful within her. More so now than ever it was in life. Perhaps that is because to be alive is to be restless, especially for half-elves; no matter where Raine goes, she quickly discovers that she has no place to stay.

Her daughter has children of her own to look after, though she at least had the sense to adopt orphans rather than curse another generation with elven blood, however diluted by humanity. Yet this same praiseworthy decision serves to divide Raine from her descendants, even the half-elves among them. Though they listen to the stories she spins, she must speak to them as if from a distance—separated by a layer of nervous skepticism, ironically very like her own.

Even her younger brother, by now quite experienced in the long-expected shock of each parting, needs her less and less. His own, full-blooded family fills the void. They have all assured Raine, time and time again, that she will never lose her place among them. But, in a perhaps misguided effort to avoid prioritizing her needs over theirs, she prefers to walk alone.

Visiting each of her friends' graves, as well as that of her husband, Raine does not cry; she has no tears left. (This must be what it's like to be an angel.) Instead, she simply stands in silence, suffocating in her solitude, and shuts out the world. She saw less and less of them over the years before their deaths, because it became as painful for her as it was for them. Now they're gone, and Raine is alone.

Almost. So few others are capable of understanding the helpless anguish that comes with her grief that she cannot bear the thought of trying to articulate it to anyone else. There _is_ one other person who knows how she feels, but Raine wishes to wait until she's sure the answer Yuan offers will be the one she wants. So she bears the burden of her race alone for another cycle of seasons, her long-forgotten hopes for a future purpose guiding her like a compass through the bitter darkness.

And then, as the dawn of spring breaks all around her, Raine understands in a way she cannot explain that the time has come for her to return. It has been long enough by now, she thinks, that he will have arrived at a satisfactory response. As has she. Leaving a letter for her worldly brother, Raine finally flees the reality he has embraced.

Home—to Yuan.


	7. I want tomorrow

_dawn breaks; there is blue in the sky_  
 _your face before me, though I don't know why_  
 _thoughts disappearing like tears from the moon_

* * *

"Raine," greets Yuan, blinded by sunlight on silver, and blinks a few times to clear his sight, but this is no mirage. "You seem… different." _Older_ comes to mind and lingers on his lips, but he swallows the word. He has just enough residual awareness of societal convention to understand the danger of inadvertent insults, even if he means it as an incoherent and inexplicable compliment.

Still, it alarms Yuan how earnestly he wants to subdue parts of himself, softening his too-sharp tongue. He hasn't second-guessed his behavior like this since the long-ago days of his lady's courtship. Raine sees all this and more in his eyes, his usual veil of guile and grief sliding down to reveal something almost like fear, or hurt, amid a storm of confusion.

Her presence is evidently more disruptive to Yuan than she thought, but she doesn't know what to make of it, so she decides to return his greeting instead. "So do you," says Raine, as tartly as she can. Yuan can tell from her tone that she knows his thoughts, but her voice quavers just enough that her words don't have the same bite they once did. "May I come in?"

Yuan knows very well that he has no choice, and steps mutely aside to let her pass. Raine brushes by, cool and careful. Once the door clicks quietly shut behind them, the only sound in the room is the comfortingly finite heartbeat of the clock. Persistent and powerful, it dents the silence stretching between them at steady intervals until Yuan can bear it no longer.

"How is your brother?"

Disarmed by the suddenness of the question, Raine can't help but stare. Even in these pacifistic years, Yuan's powers of observation and deduction are still formidable. She never told him her destination, or even mentioned it in passing. Still, she supposes that in times like these, his is the only logical conclusion.

"Still in Ozette," answers Raine, clearing her throat faintly. "He hasn't moved since he settled down and had his first family there, and he's sworn never to have another. I don't blame him, with the number of descendants he has already." She gives a weary half-smile. "It's not often that an ancestor still runs his ancestral home, but he's put down roots, and no one can move him now." Something Raine never had the conviction to do.

Yuan hears her silent addition in her tone, and frowns momentarily. The world has been harsh enough to Raine without her condemning herself as well. "It isn't for everyone," he murmurs, reassurance soft and warm and pleasantly smooth on his tongue. "In fact, I'd argue that it isn't for _most_."

Overt kindness is strange, even alien, coming from Yuan. Perplexed at his compassion, Raine purses her lips. "You've… changed," she says, the sentiment escaping before she can stop it. "I left behind a different Yuan than the one to whom I have now returned. Twice." She pauses, scrutinizing him with guarded interest, as if trying to pinpoint a physical difference. "How can that be?"

Raine speaks in the same tone she must have used with her students long ago, gentle and encouraging. Still, Yuan finds that he cannot meet her searching gaze, and yearns for the strength to shelve his pride and answer. Yet, in spite of his newfound desire to seek out Raine's company, to engage her in conversation and preserve their correspondence, his fatal flaw remains too heavy to move.

In his mortal days, Yuan was a Sylvaranti general; in his immortal days, Yuan was an angel and a renegade. Both times, he could see his causes so clearly that they shone like stars in his soul—so clearly that he led countless others to glory or to death in their pursuit, because they could see those constellations too. But after all he ever fought for was either attained or undone, his ideals and his identity both began to crumble.

In the early days of solitude, Yuan still felt confident enough in his role as my self-appointed guardian that even his isolation could not lead him astray. It was not until Raine finally turned her back on him that he realized, somewhere deep inside his soul, that he had not truly been alone until that moment. She, not I, was his last remaining connection to the outside realm, to his own world, to his own history, even to his own memories. And there is no longer a reason for him to keep up appearances during her absence, even for himself.

Yuan has known he's been changing, or perhaps dissolving, for as long as it's been happening. However, he's hidden the reasons from himself for decades; unthought, shapeless, yet always there. Only now, after months of finally uncovering and deciphering them, does he recognize the stark and bitter truth: that without anyone to share his surroundings and remind him of himself, Yuan Ka-Fai—all that he once stood for, all that he is, and all that he ever could be—ceases to exist at all.

Raine stands and watches Yuan helplessly, transfixed by the subtle and variable crease of his brow, the occasional twitch of his lips, his semi-shallow breaths as if in pain. His eyes are active, but deep and distant, as if seeing something no longer there. She knows better than to think he will be able to formulate an answer in the here and now, let alone articulate it to her.

Still, Raine deliberates a few more moments before determining that an answer to a different question will be more useful: that will tell her if she has the time to wait for this one as well. "Enough pleasantries," she says, and Yuan pulls himself out of his thoughts with a visible effort, glancing up at her. "You know why I came back."

He does. She returned to ask the first question of potentially many, to wrench open gates long left locked, almost _forgotten_ without her to call attention to them. Fear, cold and irrational, contrasts sharply with the shame searing Yuan from the inside out. What if he can no longer remember? What if Raine leaves him again, forever this time, since she'll have no reason to stay…?

Through Yuan's silence, Raine witnesses the extent to which he has been made brittle and bewildered by dwelling alone in a time not his own. Her heart seems to contract in her chest, not repulsed but repentant. She's spent so long observing history taking shape all around her that it takes her awhile to recognize the instinct to intervene, to _protect_. Even if the answer is no, Raine cannot in good conscience leave Yuan broken again.

She opens her mouth to tell him so, but before she can speak, Yuan bows his head in a defeated affirmative. To his own surprise, it is not the fear of continued solitude that guides his final decision most, but rather the desire to feel like a _part_ of something again. Yuan's existence has never felt so disconnected before, but Raine can bring him back to 's sure of it.

"Start wherever you like," says Yuan finally, gesturing to the chair nearest Raine in an invitation for her to sit, and they share a smile for what feels like the very first time.


	8. only time

_who can say when the roads meet_  
 _that love might be in your heart_  
 _and who can say when the day sleeps_  
 _if the night keeps all your heart_

* * *

And so, finally, they talk.

Forever, it seems. All Raine has to do is tug loose a single historical fact, and a cascade of disjointed memories bursts into Yuan's mind. Each of them is in its turn tied to thousands of other tiny details long left buried, a stream of incoherent recollections pouring from his mouth until he begins to worry that he has lost her somewhere in the past—that he has led her farther than she ever meant to go, or down certain paths that she finds meaningless—but Raine stays faithfully by his side, interrupting only to ask Yuan to pause if she needs to finish one of her notes.

And after Yuan talks himself hoarse, which happens much more quickly than he anticipated, she brews some tea for him. He tries to talk her out of it, dimly remembering the horror stories of her culinary misadventures, but she insists. To his astonishment, the result is not only drinkable, but actively soothes his throat. "I've been practicing in the kitchen," Raine confesses, somewhere between proud and embarrassed, and pours herself a cup as well. "For times like these, when scientific experimentation is… uncalled for."

Once his voice is restored, Yuan continues, his thoughts more organized now. He confides in Raine his long-ago hardships, recounting how his mother told him on her deathbed that his father was an elf. He tells her more about his service in the military, of his painstaking efforts to pass as human in a prejudiced world, and of his involvement in the Kharlan War. But Yuan does not speak of his heart, nor can Raine bring herself to ask after it. For all his outbursts, any tales of his travels with his former companions remain untold.

As night falls, they lapse into an oddly companionable silence, each staring into the magically fueled fireplace and recalling the last times they and their respective allies sat around a campfire. Forgotten emotions flood their minds like the firelight, stoked through storytelling: uneasy contentment in the moment, anticipation of the journey's continuation the next day, constant readiness for battle. Home, as a singular location, ceased to exist. They were not only self-sufficient, but fended for their friends as well.

Raine bears the usual melancholy in still silence, letting her thoughts come and go like so many raindrops, but Yuan strives to catch his instead. Closed-eyed and restless, he catches the scent of fandalia, the sound of laughter, a sparkle in emerald eyes… no, not emerald. His love was far more organic, and more precious, than gemstone. She was the living green of flora, vernal and vivacious; she was the ancient green of enduring moss, the blinding green in the sun after the rain. It _hurts_ , the brightness of days long gone.

Yuan only comes back to himself when he opens his burning eyes and realizes that Raine is offering him one of his own tattered handkerchiefs. As he touches his hand to his face in astonishment, it comes away warm and wet and shaking slightly under the weight of everything he cannot say. "I—I'm sorry," he says, turning away as another fragment surfaces: the last time he cried was the night he forgot that beautiful shade of green entirely, in that colorless sensual dream.

"Don't be," says Raine, softly, and means it. This is the kind of crying that the body does all on its own, without consulting the rational mind; the only comfort she can offer comes in pain, to ease the passage of his tears. "What was she like?" She speaks in a hushed voice, daring to ask at last, although she feels strangely breathless. Her heart quickens under Yuan's stare, and she drops her gaze in a gesture of respect.

Though Raine's inquiry does not come as a surprise, Yuan still deliberates as long as possible, getting to his feet and pacing back and forth. He wants to tell her that he forgot, that he lost his mind somewhere amid the agony of isolation, but bites his tongue. "I loved her enough to help Yggdrasill try to resurrect her, and I loved her enough to go behind his back in the end," he says finally. "That's all."

Raine nods hesitantly, but does not make any notes. She asked only because she was curious, and nothing more. She almost smiles as Yuan frowns, his eyes flicking briefly between her and her inkpen. Is it really so difficult for him to believe that Raine does not ask all her questions as a historian? She cannot treat feelings the way she does facts—dissecting them, analyzing them, and putting them in their place. Emotions cannot be solidified simply by writing them down, and their truth is of a less tangible kind.

Warmth wells up in Yuan's soul at the realization that he and his heart are safe in Raine's care. "I loved the same woman for four thousand years," he says quietly, leaning on the table with both hands to support himself, and glances up at Raine again as if in search of absolution. "And it destroyed me. I wanted to lay her to rest for reasons as selfish as Mithos's justification for resurrecting her. In that respect, I am no better."

True to her unspoken word, Raine makes no move to record his response, sadness hollowing out her chest. Perhaps she misses being a confidante; perhaps she is simply being selfish, trying to keep some of his precious stories all to herself. Or perhaps there is no need to write down his thoughts, because she has already committed this particular sentiment to memory. For a moment, she sees paler hair and bluer eyes, hears a deeper and more gentle voice, and shivers at the memory.

"Yuan," says Raine haltingly, her husband's name catching in her throat. "Please don't punish yourself. I've had… more than enough experience dealing with men who cannot release their pasts." Yuan frowns slightly; her words could easily be critical, even harsh, but there is only regret and grief in her tone. It would be a simple matter to return her question, to drop a few words into that impenetrable pool of sorrow, just to see its surface ripple. _What was he like_ …?

But, resisting his bitter temptation, Yuan chokes the phrase into silence. Raine's loss is too recent for confiding in him to have a similarly cathartic effect. "I'm tired, Raine," he says instead, leaning on his elbows with all the weight of his past pressing on his sagging shoulders, and bows his head as if in prayer. "I'm so tired."

"Sleep," suggests Raine gently, with surprising immediacy, although they both know his exhaustion is not necessarily of a physical kind. Still, Yuan sees the sense in the word; it has been a long day. He considers retiring to his room, but the idea of a closed door between them feels so unbearably lonely and oppressive that he does not entertain the thought for more than a moment.

Instead, he paces to his sofa—situated just across the rug from Raine, although it seems thousands of miles away—and lies down without a word. She does not ask why Yuan seems afraid to leave her. Somewhere inside her, she already knows.

"I'll be here," she murmurs, and perhaps it's a trick of the flickering light, but she thinks she sees Yuan's face relax at her assurance. Yet it feels impolite to look at him for long, even to marvel at his peaceful countenance… so Raine simply sits in his armchair, watching the fire die through unfocused eyes, until she sees no more.


	9. someone said goodbye

_is there a reason why a broken dream can never fly  
_ _is there a reason you believe and then you close your eyes  
_ _give me a reason why you hide away so much inside  
_ _if there's a reason, I don't know why_

* * *

They move through the months like moving through a dream, sitting still as the world turns around them.

After the first day, Yuan's fear disappears as quickly as it seized him. That night, he sleeps in his bed again—if only because Raine insists on taking the sofa instead. She always stays up much later than he, anyway, making sense of her notes and losing herself in sympathetic reflections until they shift into dreams.

Yuan always awakens before her, moving silently through his daily ritual and trying not to look her way. Often, he finds some excuse to busy himself outside, hunting or gathering or just sitting still to feel the flow of life all around him. After she awakens and makes herself presentable, Raine comes to the door to let him know it is safe for him to return. And they share a smile each morning, reflexive and reassuring.

So they settle into a rhythm. By day, Raine helps with what she can around the house—or rather, with what Yuan will allow her to do. By night, they document history and memory, by now synonymous. Yuan's stories become more methodical after their first session, a spoken autobiography following his earlier life. As he informs Raine, he prefers to establish as much context as possible before explaining his journey, and the first night was chaotic enough.

Yet Yuan knows, and Raine guesses, that laying out this foundation is primarily an excuse. Having so recently rediscovered himself, it is almost painful to delve into his personal past. Raine hears his hesitations, but does not make space for them in her notes, trusting that Yuan will tell her the whole story when he is ready. But she finds before long that her heart already cannot bear the parallels between them, and begins to wonder whether _she_ will ever be ready.

It's something he says, a simple phrase Raine has heard countless times before: _there are some things that are worse than death_. Yuan speaks of his father, unknowingly adoptive, and his deathbed madness before the peace of his passing, but in that moment Raine sees her mother, forcibly forgotten all these long lonely years—sees herself, forever from now, isolated and insane.

Yuan senses something shift behind her veiled eyes, but he dares not inquire about it. If it's important, he thinks, she will tell him. But she only requests that he continue, her voice soft and dignified, and he has no choice but to obey.

By the time they exchange their nightly well-wishes, Raine has stretched herself to the point of exhaustion… but, though sleep claims her with merciful speed, her slumber is fitful. She thought she made her peace long ago, but memories of her mother and of motherhood return to haunt her in her first nightmares since she came here to bask in the eternal serenity of the Giant Tree.

As the day breaks, Raine comes to me and wants to cry. Instead, she sings, raising her voice in an unbroken lament. All the Elven songs she remembers—songs of mourning and homecoming, songs of meeting and parting, songs of love and war—spill out of her along with the tears she tried so desperately to suppress.

Her tone is raw and hoarse to her own ears, but melodic and mellifluous to Yuan's. It stirs him out of slumber, more compelling than birdsong. Rising, he wanders outside in half a trance to listen more closely. It has only been four elven lifetimes since his day; from what he recalls of the ballads his betrothed sang to her brother, the older songs have barely changed.

Silence falls, the last note ringing, and Raine finally remembers to breathe… but, as she hears the creak of wood beneath Yuan's feet, the air vanishes from her lungs. "Yuan," she greets him, caught off-guard by his undisguised presence. The tears have stopped, but her throat still aches and her eyes still sting, and she bows her head self-consciously. "I—I'm sorry."

Yuan only shakes his head. "Don't be," he murmurs, an echo of her words to him some time ago. But the quiet, once soothing, has become oppressive; he cannot let it be. "I was never fluent in Elven," he begins, but cannot think how to continue. The only language he has ever known is Celestial—not the tongue of angels, the heavenly agents of benevolence, but the same one they speak now, only from thousands of years ago.

"I'm not surprised you never learned Elven," says Raine, her voice broken but matter-of-fact. "You can pass as human. I had to pass as an elf." Yuan has not heard this story, and frowns, but Raine shakes her head. His past takes precedence; her own can wait. "But I can teach you."

Yuan blinks at her. "That won't be necessary."

Raine simply looks at him. Her midnight eyes are still tinged red, silver lashes stuck together with saltwater, but they are sharp enough to see through his excuse: he is not declining out of a lack of interest. "One is never too old to learn, Yuan," she tells him, the faintest hint of a smile twisting the corner of her mouth. "And besides, I'd like to learn Celestial. It's an even trade."

Yuan knows by now that there is an indomitable will behind her serene expression. This is as much a request as it is an offer, a plea for something to occupy her restless thoughts. He has little choice but to acquiesce, ancient sounds rolling rough and rusty off his tongue in a forced affirmative: "As you wish."

To Raine, the tones are half-familiar, individual words almost identifiable, but… different. As she repeats them back to him tentatively, and he corrects her, their breath provides heat enough for the days to melt together again.

This time, they are equals, each teaching and learning in their turn—but even after Yuan has no more to say about his upbringing, he prefers to delve deeper into the objective past, the history of his own time. It is still too painful to think of his companions, and in fact, it seems even more so lately. Though they say nothing, they both know why. The more barriers between them are dissolved, the more their identities blur, and the more recent all Yuan's many losses feel.

As the months pass, they seem to lose track of their individual selves more and more, history and historian becoming one… until one morning, seasons later, Yuan rises to find a sense of unsettled resolution in the air. Raine is already awake, staring sightlessly out the window; a decision has been made, and given that her bag is already packed and beside the door, Yuan knows what it means. "Are you leaving?"

Raine turns, smiling somewhat sadly. "If you'd rather I stay, you have only to say so," she says. "Otherwise, yes, I should go. My… descendants, I suppose, might be worried." She sighs, but there is no grief in the sound. "I've long since lost touch with my daughter's kin, but my brother's family keeps their own constantly in their hearts. I left without leaving much of an explanation, and it has been some time."

Yuan clears his throat, looking away. The thought of her having a home besides his own irks him in a way he cannot begin to explain. But then, perhaps that is her point in leaving; they have grown too used to one another's company, too dependent on the concept of togetherness. "Do whatever you want."

"I'm asking what _you_ want," smiles Raine, approaching a few tentative steps. "But in any case, I won't be gone long; I promise."

Yuan takes a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. What he wants remains unclear, but what he does _not_ want is to oppose Raine's desires—no matter whether she means the human or elven 'long'. "Safe journey, Raine," is all Yuan says, struggling in Elven, and unconsciously takes another few steps forward. (Close as they have become, there still seems an insurmountable distance between them.)

"Thank you, Yuan," responds Raine, in perfect Celestial, and gazes up at him. Though she barely meets his eyes, she does not move away; they simply linger, awkward as humans, closer than they have ever stood before. Something has been left unfinished between them, but no language is enough to convey their uncertain intention.

To fix it, she kisses him goodbye.


	10. long long journey

_long long journey out of nowhere  
_ _long long way to go  
_ _but what are sighs and what is sadness  
_ _to the heart that's coming home_

* * *

Time passes so much more slowly with Raine gone.

Yuan did not notice how much of his life she came to fill until she left the hole behind. Without her prodding questions to guide his thoughts, they run wild, roaming free over subjects long left taboo. And so Yuan finds himself thinking once more of his companions—of his lady, his love, the light of his life before the darkness forced him to shine for himself.

But it seems he has spent too long avoiding her, or perhaps _this_ is what he has been avoiding. Yuan can recall the halcyon days before that knife cut them short, down to the beats his heart skipped, but he can never recapture the feelings that motivated him. All that remains is the dull ache of loss, grown sharper thanks to Raine's welcome prodding, and a vague sense of less welcome discontent.

Still, as he pries into his own tightly shut heart, Yuan finds that what he felt no longer matters, only how he still feels. And he discovers that he still misses them all, more than he would have thought possible after so many centuries. Once, he was a hero, borne up by the strength of his comrades; once, he held onto something greater than himself to fight for. How could one such as he have lost everything?

Yet, as it turns out, Yuan still has far more than he thinks… including the lingering impression of that single, inopportune kiss.

It may have been brief and half-chaste, altogether unremarkable by most standards, but something about it still haunts him. The nature of Raine's goodbye came as such a shock that Yuan could not gather his wits in time either to reciprocate or to push her away. Yet the gesture feels so predictable in retrospect… and so inexplicably, irrepressibly _right_.

Yuan puts that thought from his troubled mind at first, but as Raine's absence stretches on, her living lips on his break into his reflections more and more frequently. And their kiss deepens in daydreams, at least before he comes back to himself and apologizes—again—to the memory of a half-forgotten love. (Wishing, all the while, that he could feel truly ashamed.)

Raine is not the reason Yuan cannot sleep, but it is only after one more sleepless night that a dangerous certainty rises with the sun. Consciously or otherwise, she has managed to weave herself so thoroughly into his being that, contrary to the gap he feels, she could never really leave him if she tried.

The thought is as terrifying as it is comforting, and Yuan shivers in the frigid dawn. It seems he has given Raine influence over some part of himself so expertly hidden that he assumed he had lost it, too. These days, he has felt nothing save what she makes him feel, directly or indirectly. In telling his tale, he has surrendered far more to her than mere information.

And so another answerless question forms, drifting in the back of Yuan's restless mind: how did her presence, her very existence, become so integral to his life?

Seizing on the superficial, fearful of all that lies beyond it, Yuan decides that it must be because Raine still has a heart that his own responds so readily. She reminds him of how he felt in his own youth, younger even than her, and he has known for some time that _she_ is his connection to this world—past, present, and future. Everything he has lost can still be found, as long as Raine shows him the way.

All that remains is to await her return.

In the meantime, she left several pages of her notes behind. Yuan suppresses the curiosity for as long as he can, but after several seasons pass with no sign of Raine, he picks them up on an impulse and skims through the pages. Just to hear her voice again, even if only in his head.

They may be Yuan's memories, but they have been filtered through Raine's mind, and the things she jots down in the margins feel almost like fragments of diary entries. Bittersweet, intimate… and arcane. _Lying to the world: façade, compromised self-ID & loss of trust, distorted concept of truth yet __always seeking_ , one of them reads. Another, _those who feel abandoned tend to abandon others—emotional absenteeism—fight/flight re: obligations—Virginia?_

The very last of them is in Elven script, but Yuan has been practicing in Raine's absence, and he has always been better with written words than speaking. In a way, this feels like a test, a challenge laid before him. He must answer it. And so he studies her scribble, swift and elegant yet somehow just the slightest bit haphazard, until he finds the meaning in the strokes.

 _This is where I belong_.

Raine feels it more clearly than ever, out-of-place amid the hustle and bustle of a now-busy town. Her brother's house stands in the deepest woods, calmer and quieter in its ancient constancy, but the outskirts of the forest have become much more densely populated. Ever since fire first fell from the sky, the village has grown into a home of refugees, living on common ground beneath the giant boughs.

In a way, this coexistence is a triumph Raine recognizes as something Yuan once fought for. Even if it is too little, and several millennia too late, it is peaceful here. However, Yuan has sworn never to leave me, so he cannot witness his victory for himself. From time to time, she finds herself imagining him at her side, but can never quite picture his expression.

Despite her best efforts to concentrate on the here and now, Raine thinks of him more often—and in more ways—than she cares to consider. She must, for so many of her thoughts and feelings to make their winged way back to me. I hear her most clearly when she remembers that she must report back to him… no… no, not yet. But soon.

By the time Raine finally says her farewells, she is able to do so gladly, but the greeting to come knots her stomach. For she can sense, even before she lands near his house in her obsolete Rheaird, that she will once again return to a different Yuan than the one she left behind.

She finds him in his usual grove, practicing archery. His movements are lithe and fluid, unburdened by the tension of the past, and Raine half thinks it must be because he has not noticed her yet. But then Yuan turns to face her with the sun in his eyes and the wind in his hair, looking four thousand years younger, and her breath catches. _This_ Yuan is the one whose acquaintance she has sought, all this time.

"Welcome home, Raine," he says, in Elven, and smiles.


	11. hope has a place

_under the heavens, we journey far  
_ _on roads of life, we're the wanderers  
_ _so let love rise; so let love depart  
_ _let hope have a place in the lover's heart  
_ _hope has a place in a lover's heart_

* * *

They're not quite lovers, but they could be, if you could only see how they look at one another.

For all the seasons they spent apart, it takes remarkably little time for them to catch up. Both of them feel that they have changed in some fundamental way since their separation, but cannot articulate the shift. They simply drink in one another's presence, finding solace in their shared, unspoken sentiment.

Once the smiles give way to more words, they fashion their sessions into dialogues, no longer soliloquies. Raine, too, has her own history, intertwined with Yuan's—and those of his companions—in unexpected parallels. But even her entire story is a short one compared to his. She finishes most of it within the time Yuan spends recovering from losing his voice again, nursing his tea.

Raine talks of passing as an elf, moving from place to place in her youth to conceal her more rapid aging, and raising her brother on the road. More reluctantly, she talks of teaching, traveling the reunited world, and finding ways to justify her existence to strangers. But she does not speak of matters closer to her heart: all else Yuan has heard, or can guess.

Once he can speak again, Yuan reciprocates with tales of his own travels, this time including his companions. There was his fiercest rival turned most steadfast ally. There was the boy who should have been like a sibling or a son to him, but never was. And… there was the woman he meant to marry.

It takes time and liquor to loosen Yuan's tongue, but loosen it does. How many new doors his lady opened in his mind, and led him laughing through. How many subtle blessings she gave him, each one counted daily like a prayer. How utterly she transformed him, thawing the soul he had frozen in misguided self-preservation. Since her death, it turned to ice again, but is no longer.

How did it soften this time…?

Deep down, Yuan knows, and cannot bring himself to look at Raine anymore. Too much of what he says applies to _her_ as well. Yet still she believes Yuan has never once let his fiancée go, because she can see all too well that his face is ruddy in more than firelight or tipsiness. After all, her late husband harbored the same untouchable love, pure in its past tense. Why is it that another woman must always come first?

As Raine's heart constricts as though swallowing regret, she must remind herself that Yuan owes her nothing—that she is here only to listen, and nothing more. She tells herself that his lost little half-smiles are enough, at once melancholy and brilliant. They complement the glimmer of resignation in his gaze, just barely too soft to be steely.

But for all Yuan's quiet determination, he becomes more and more nervous the farther they retrace his steps along his former course. He walked in darkness for many centuries, and he fears the necessity of guiding Raine along his twisted path. What if her light is not enough to guide him through? Or what if, mired in his misery, she refuses to follow him to the end?

"Raine," begins Yuan, on a night when neither of them can sleep, and leans against the doorway to his bedroom. "Can you ever forgive me?"

Raine glances up from her book, no hint of surprise at his wakefulness in her expression; only a perplexed frown. "What for?"

"For… everything," says Yuan, unable to meet her eyes. "There will soon be nights when I must speak of the millennia I spent supporting the Age of Lifeless Beings. Even after I founded the Renegades, I was still party to unforgivable crimes." He sighs. "You are a historian, Raine. You know that intention is irrelevant compared to the damage done."

Raine shakes her head. "Yet you still fought to undo it. Your choices led to destruction, but your choices also brought about its end. And…" She hesitates. "I know that, for the most part, you only acted in the interest of self-preservation." The scale of their deeds may be incomparable, but she too remembers the morals she had to abandon in order to survive childhood. She has tried, many times, to forget.

"That is no excuse," snaps Yuan, agitated. "I sacrificed countless others to save myself, and for what? To resurrect one woman who never wanted any of this?" He grips his arms tightly. "Kratos, at least, had the courage to make a clean break and find his own happiness. I clung to what I knew, rather than face the prospects of a death I more than deserved."

"No, Yuan," says Raine gently, closing her book, and rises. "The best decision you ever could have made was to keep struggling. It might have been easier for you to resign yourself to the end, but you knew the world would be better served with you still in it." She braves a smile. His resolution is altogether too reminiscent of the last man she loved. "I appreciate… no, I _admire_ that."

But Yuan cannot hear Raine's praise over his hateful heartbeat. "My life meant less than nothing until I swore to guard the Giant Tree."

"And it seems to be flourishing under your care," says Raine, glancing aside to compose herself as her voice trembles slightly along with her fingers. She, herself, does not know the meaning behind what she is about to say. "But… I owed you my life long before you took up such a task."

Yuan stares at her, disarmed. "What?"

Raine takes a deep breath to calm the sudden fluttering in her stomach. "It _is_ strange to think about. But had you lived a normal life, or perhaps even if you had allowed yourself to die a little earlier, I—and innumerable others like me—may never have been born. Even if we walked this earth, I never would have met you." Raine meets Yuan's eyes evenly. "And that would be a shame. I'd miss our conversations."

Her insistence is gratifying, but however precious new life may be, it does not make worthwhile the devastation that wrought it: Yuan cannot accept her compliment. "If we never conversed, you wouldn't be able to miss it," he says instead. "I think you'd find plenty of other men you could just as easily…" Yuan swallows the word 'charm' as it makes its way to the tip of his tongue. (No. Not now. Not yet.)

"You are not expendable, Yuan."

It is not until Raine says the words aloud that Yuan realizes the extent to which he truly believes in his inadequacy, and blinks at her in shock. Even his lady could never have offered such prompt and perfect reassurance; in her day, he was a different man, with different needs. He and they have both changed since, and she is no longer here to fulfill either of them. But Raine is.

In that moment, Yuan recognizes that he has already let go.

"Do you need to hear it again?" asks Raine, half-understanding and half-misinterpreting his silence, and takes measured steps forward. "You are irreplaceable. _You_ , as you are, the son of a human and an elf, with all your scars and burdens." She stops just before Yuan, searching his face. "Your own life is no less valuable than any of those you have taken. Remember that."

As Raine speaks, sincere in her acceptance, Yuan is pulled into the depths of her eyes as though stargazing. Here is someone who will not betray or abandon him—the most unpredictable part of his life since the fall of the angels, now his only constant. And Raine sees that realization unfold in Yuan's softening countenance, tenderness overtaking all his doubt and fear. He will be able to sleep now.

She can tell, from the way he kisses her good night.


	12. it's in the rain

_late at night, I drift away  
_ _I can hear you calling  
_ _and my name is in the rain  
_ _leaves on trees whispering  
_ _deep blue seas' mysteries_

* * *

Another storm comes, and rain beats thick and fast on the roof like the pulse of the sky… but inside, the fire burns hotter than usual, and brighter.

The scene is one of silent serenity, a stark contrast to the restlessness of the wind and water just outside. Raine is curled up in the armchair she has come to call her own, proofreading her work by soft golden firelight. Yuan is polishing his boots at the table, but makes the mistake of glancing over at her as he hears a page turn.

His attention snags on Raine's quick and dainty hands, as she rubs parchment thoughtfully between her ink-stained forefinger and thumb, and then moves to the rest of her. She is barefoot, her silver hair a little longer than she likes it and still damp from a recent bath. Her attire is nothing he hasn't seen before—well-worn leggings and an old silken shirt—but it suits her.

Raine notices Yuan staring, as she notices most things, but says nothing. She merely continues leafing through the pages of history. But all the same, she cannot stop her heart from palpitating under his unconscious appraisal.

Not that Raine hasn't been observing Yuan, too, reading him between her lines. Simplicity becomes him. In her eyes, no military uniform suits him half as well as threadbare trousers and a loosely stitched tunic. He is no longer a soldier, but a civilian—though his attitude has not shifted accordingly. But even if Yuan will never lose his edge, Raine thinks his face might have lost a few of its lines.

Things have gotten complicated. Both their kisses have gone all but unacknowledged, save for an increasing awareness of how they look. Each of them worries that if this nameless friction keeps up, it will interfere with their purpose together. Still, they can never bring themselves to do anything about it, because they are both afraid that mentioning it will make matters worse.

But something about tonight feels different.

"I'm going to wash my hands," says Yuan, setting down his cloth, and gets to his feet. It will be best if he busies himself elsewhere for a time. "Do you need anything?"

Raine does not look up. "A backrub might be nice," she says, massaging one of her stiff shoulders absently. That is where she carries all his stress in tangible knots, and she has had more reason for it lately, the way they look at one another.

Yuan blinks, caught off-guard. "What?"

Raine shrugs, but winces at the motion. "It's the only thing I can think of that I might need. Otherwise, I am well provided for. Perhaps better than I should be."

Her words stick to Yuan, clinging to and smothering his doubts as he slips into the kitchen. The cold water and familiar magic clears his hands, but not his head, and does not cool him down. There is something in the air, like the wind before this storm, more tangible than ever. And, despite his growing discomfort, he finds he cannot stay away for long.

Raine hears Yuan return, and feels him weigh his options, before he lets out a short sigh. "Turn aside," he says, gesturing. Raine would be lying if she said she _expected_ him to indulge her, but she will be the last one to question it. She obeys, swinging her legs off the side of the armchair to grant Yuan easier access to her back.

He rests his hands gingerly on Raine's shoulders, but begins kneading them only after another pause. Over the last centuries, Yuan has scarcely touched anyone save to kill them. He does not quite remember how to be gentle.

Gradually, Raine's breathing deepens in the rhythm of his movement, hitching or becoming involuntary vocalizations when he presses just right or wrong. Yuan shudders as his mind begins wandering to other kinds of elicitations, and half thinks Raine might feel it in his hands. Yet, even though he slows his pace, he cannot feel how her pulse races to compensate.

"Thank you," murmurs Raine eventually, and Yuan realizes he has stopped altogether, but is powerless to move away from her. This does not escape her notice, and she seizes the opportunity. "But if I might ask one thing more—you've been watching me for some time. I can't help but wonder what you find so fascinating."

Raine's voice is full of guarded interest, if a little breathless, but Yuan tenses as though they stand opposite one another on the battlefield again. The time is now or never. Swallowing his heart, beating in his throat, he forces out two words: "You're beautiful."

"I'm… beautiful," repeats Raine, the tips of her pointed ears turning a delicate shade of pink, and turns to face Yuan as she rises. She senses it, too: this tension has gone unarticulated and unexplored long enough. "Just what do you think of me, Yuan?"

Any courage he might have had vanishes at the prospects of explaining how highly he thinks of Raine, and his voice fails him. Yet, when he leans down to kiss her instead, she covers his mouth with a few willowy fingers. "A kiss is not an answer," she says reproachfully. "I'd have thought the last couple times were proof enough of that."

Yuan sighs. "What do you want me to say, Raine?"

 _The truth_ comes to mind, but he looks so lost and helpless that she takes pity on him. "I will not ask you to tell me you love me," says Raine gently. "But if you feel the same way I do, then tell me you need me, and that will be enough."

Yuan bows his head, relief washing over him at the promise of requital. "I do," he says softly, and dares to caress Raine's cheek. Her eyes half-close under his touch, so long dreamed of yet unfelt. "I need you. And I know this seems…"

"Sudden?" finishes Raine, raising her hand to cover his. At the feeling of Yuan's living warmth, her eyes shine in relief, joy, anticipation. "So were our kisses, and I have no regrets about those. I need you, too." And she permits him to lean down again, this time, even as she speaks.

 _This_ kiss is not a goodbye or a good-night, but a greeting, a beginning, a gateway to something more. Yuan sinks into his senses, soaking in Raine, and she responds so passionately that he is almost disarmed. They both forgot the joy of forgetting, of physicality, of the natural progression down this sensual road.

The same fears that once divided them now serve to drive them closer than ever. Raine must fight back against time, and Yuan has something to prove, too. Vengeance on the part of himself that still refuses to let the memory of his lady rest, a desire to lose himself in someone who is _not_ her—to prove that she is not, and can never be, the only one for him.

The human halves of their blood buzz and hum with impatient infatuation, and their kiss becomes insistent, almost oppressive, burning hot like their blush. Yuan smooths his hands along Raine's back, her sides, her waist, and she grips his tunic with the force of her reciprocation. And then for balance, as he leans her unconsciously against the back of the sofa, pressing against her.

"I know now that you need me," pants Raine, "but I had no idea you _wanted_ me." It takes Yuan a moment to register her words, and another to interpret them, before he realizes that she is addressing a physical shift between them.

There is no sense in denying it; lying is unthinkable. "So much of my life has been spent in mourning," says Yuan, a little more urgently than he intends. "Give me a reason to let go. Help me move past the story I tell you every night. Please, Raine."

"And you talk of suddenness," says Raine, but she is not raising an objection. Yuan can see that much in her eyes, unblinking and unabashed, as they meet his. "No, I'd have asked if you hadn't. I have forsaken my own happiness for too long, as well."

There are many things Yuan wants to say to that, but there is no longer any need to say them. Raine's gaze alone compels him to be silent, but he cannot be still. In some lingering impulse to be chivalrous, the gentleman he used to be, Yuan bends down to pick Raine up, relishing her little 'oh!' of surprise as he sweeps her off her feet.

Raine has never been in Yuan's room before, but does not so much as glance around as he carries her through the doorway: it will still be there in the morning. And he is no less preoccupied, as he lays her carefully down atop his bed. It has been four thousand years since last he did this dance, but that misguided faithfulness has never meant so little as it does now.

One more hesitation, and Yuan lies beside Raine, not dominant but equal. Moving more deliberately now, they savor even the simplest of touches. This passion is no longer hasty, but elven-like, almost cautious. They have all the time in the world.

"Raine." Her name comes as half a sigh, long and light and lingering, almost melancholy yet somehow hopeful too.

"Yuan," murmurs Raine, her voice low and curious, and it feels like sealing a pact.

Those are the last words they exchange before their newest journey; there is no more that need be said. Together they make something that isn't quite love, giving themselves over to the night, and weather the forgotten storm.


End file.
